Step To The Graveyard Easy Part 10

"Don't answer the question if you'd rather not."

"I don't date married men," she said, "no matter how insistent they are or how much money and power they have."

"That's a good philosophy."

"It almost cost me my job."

"You mean he did. The vindictive type, too."

"That's all past. I don't care to dredge it up again."

"I won't ask you to," Cape said. Then, "I like your bracelet."

Her smile came back. "It is nice, isn't it? My son gave it to me for my birthday. He's only fifteen, but he has really good taste."

"Fifteen? You don't seem old enough to have a son that age."

"Thank you. I was nineteen when I married his father."

"Not still married, I take it?"

"Divorced eight years ago, before Gary and I moved up here from Sacramento."

"Separated after twelve years," Cape said, "divorce pending. My fault, not hers."

"In my case, we were both at fault."

"Any other children?"

"No, just Gary." She stroked the bracelet with the tip of her finger. "He's the best. You know, he bought this with his own money. He works part-time as a caddy at the country club."

"Lakepoint Country Club?"

"That's right. How did you know?"

"Just a guess. It's where I'm having lunch with the Vanowens."

"Oh. Well, you'll like the restaurant. I've eaten there a few times with Gary and my roommate."

"Roommate?"

"Her name is Lilith. She also works at Lakepoint, in their payroll department. We share expenses-wages aren't high in this area, at least not for single mothers and widows."

Cape's coffee arrived. The waitress said to Justine, "Will there be anything else, Ms. Coolidge?" in chilly tones.

"No, nothing, Ms. Adams." Just as chilly.

"Why the freeze?" Cape asked when they were alone again. "You and the waitress."

"We had a problem a while back," Justine said. "She thought I was compet.i.tion for a man she was dating."

"And she was wrong?"

"Completely. I don't play that sort of game either."

"Are you in a relations.h.i.+p now?"

"... No."

"Neither am I. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"I thought that's what you were leading up to. I'm flattered, Mr. Cape-"

"Matt."

"I'm flattered, but we're not supposed to date guests. House rule."

"Rules were made to be broken."

"Not the Lakeside Grand's, and not mine."

"Suppose I weren't staying here?"

"But you are staying here."

"I could check out, move someplace else."

Raised eyebrow. "Would you really do that?"

"I think I might."

"The answer is still no." She softened the words with another of her smiles. "You seem like a nice guy, but I'm not in the market for a fling, and there's something about you that says you're not in the market for anything else."

"True enough," he admitted.

"I really am sorry."

"So am I." Cape finished his coffee, stood up. "The best to you and your son, Justine. I mean that."

"Thank you. And to you, Matt Cape."

Win some, lose some. And just as well to be a loser this time. Justine deserved better than men like him and Andrew Vanowen and the ex-husband who'd let her get away. The kind of man she deserved was an older version of the kid who'd saved his money to buy her a patterned silver bracelet for her birthday.

12.

He spent the rest of the morning making the rounds of the other casinos. In Harrah's he won a hundred and fifty playing blackjack. In Caesar's, another ninety. One of the c.r.a.ps layouts was getting some play in the Harvey's; the shooter, a sweating bald man in his sixties, was riding a hot streak and betting heavily. Cape watched him make another pa.s.s, moved in, and put fifty on the pa.s.s line. Eleven, another winner. He let his winnings ride. The next roll was an eight. Cape put another twenty on the Come line, and the shooter made his eight point the hard way, with a pair of fours, on the third roll. The bald man paused to wipe his streaming face; his eyes had a glazed look. Subtle change in the vibes. Cape switched half his stack of chips to Don't Pa.s.s. Right choice: The next roll was boxcars. c.r.a.ps for the shooter, another winner for Cape.

All right. No luck with Justine, but a nice little run of luck on the gambling end; he was close to five hundred ahead for his twenty-some hours in Stateline. Hang for a while, try to ride it up? Or put it on hold and move on when he was done with the Vanowens?

The red message light on his room phone was blinking. Voice-mail message from Vince Mahannah: Call him back any time, he expected to be home all day.

Cape tapped out the number. Mahannah said without preamble, "How would you like to sit in on my poker game tomorrow night?"

"I was thinking I might get back on the road this afternoon."

"Someplace you need to be?"

"No."

"Then stick around a couple of days. Play some poker, leave Sunday."

"Tell me something. Why the invitation?"

"Would you buy it if I said it was the favor I mentioned last night?"

Cape said, "It wouldn't be a favor if I lost money."

"No, it wouldn't. Truth is, we're shorthanded. Just five of us this time, and I don't like playing with less than six."

"I can't afford to get into a high-stakes game."

"You won't be," Mahannah said. "Not all of mine are like that. No high rollers in this one, just friends of mine. How much can you afford to lose?"

Cape thought about it. "A few thousand, maybe. But not for an hour or two's entertainment."

"You don't strike me as the wild-hair type. That kind of play is the only way you'd lose a few thousand in an hour or two. Table stakes, twenty-dollar ante, no limit on the bets, four-limit on the raises. Straight poker, nothing fancy."

"I don't know," Cape said. "I had a good run in the casinos this morning, and I'm not sure I want to push my luck."

"Sometimes pus.h.i.+ng it means riding it."

"Sometimes."

"Think it over. Give me another call if you're interested."

"I'll do that. Thanks for the invitation."

"Don't thank me unless you play and win."

Lakepoint Country Club.

Big, precision-landscaped place on the lakesh.o.r.e. Most of the eighteen-hole golf course spread over a jut of land flanked by thick stands of trees-chlorophyll-bright greens, manmade lagoon, rolling fairways, not too many hazards. Clubhouse and restaurant and outbuildings made of pine and some darker wood, embellished with native stone and plenty of gla.s.s. Playpen for the rich. The greens fees would be high, members.h.i.+p fee upwards of five thousand a year: Keep out the riffraff.

Cape had played a couple of courses like this one in the Chicago area. Golf had been part of his salesman's persona, a comfortable, outdoors way to schmooze Emerson's clients and prospective clients. He'd never been very good at the game. Nor developed the pa.s.sion for it some people did. It had been a means to an end, a take-it-or-leave-it pastime that he didn't miss at all. The new Cape, standing here looking out over all that green opulence, was as alien to golf as the old Cape would have been to the bunch of skydivers in Phoenix.

He parked in a large lot, went up onto the path that separated the lot from the woodsy grounds and led around to the clubhouse. When he pa.s.sed a screen of oleanders, a section of lawn opened up and let him see another path bordering one of the fairways. A gardener's cart stood there, two people talking beside it. The dark, pudgy man in uniform was probably one of the grounds crew; the tall woman in white blouse and shorts was Lacy Hammond.

She was facing Cape's way, recognized him. She broke off her conversation with the gardener and cut across the lawn in long, loose strides to intercept Cape before he reached the clubhouse.

"h.e.l.lo, salesman," she said. Sober this morning, and apparently none the worse for yesterday's drinking. "You do get around."

"I might say the same for you."

"I live in this area. You don't."

"Play golf, do you?"

"When the mood strikes. I'm pretty good, too. Been whacking b.a.l.l.s since I was twelve."

"I'll bet you have."

She let him hear her bawdy laugh. "You don't look much like a ball-whacker yourself."

"I used to be. Not anymore."

"So what're you doing here? No, wait, let me guess. Baby sister?"

"And her husband. I've been invited to lunch."

"My, my. You really must be some salesman."

"I told you yesterday," Cape said, "I'm not selling anything."

"Then how come the free lunch?"

"It won't be free. I'll pay for my own."

"Andy won't like that. He enjoys throwing his money around. Sometimes he even throws some my way."

"And you don't duck when he does."

"I don't drop it, either. Lacy plays catch with both hands."

"Uh-huh."

"Money and men both," she said. Her voice was bantering, but her gaze was a.n.a.lytical. "Two hands, squeeze hard, hang on tight."

"And use 'em up fast, money and men both."

"Why not? The using up works both ways."

"Pretty cynical att.i.tude."